Guru Dakshina

Guru Dakshina

Shilpi, Sheetal, Lakki, and Satyam walk to their English-medium school in the neighbourhood. Their parents, school drop-outs from vernacular village schools, and migrant workers at Bhopal, pay a hefty fee for their kids, but have little idea of the abysmal quality of education provided by the school, which is another education-shop.

Last Sunday, my four students sat in our porch on a chatai and opened their notebooks. I dictated a few words for them to write and checked their spelling. Shilpi, the youngest is five, and is still struggling with alphabet writing from A to Z, and hence I asked her to practice that.

My students particularly enjoyed when I gave them a bowl of unshelled groundnuts, and asked them to make as many personal heaps of ten each as fast as they could. Mental math, based on the nuts in their possession, made addition and subtraction fun for them. When the session ended, Shilpi asked, ‘Next Sunday, will we again count with these nuts?’

‘I will get a bundle of straw, we will light a fire, roast the shells, and eat it, but only after the counting lessons,’ I said.

Sheetal is 7 and in Class 1, Lakki is 9 and in Class 3, and Swayam is 11 and in Class 2 since he had dropped out of school when he had gone away for a few years to his village in Bihar.

After the one-hour ‘study,’ I told them a story. A little reward for their mindfulness during the study hour!

Do you know any story from Mahabharat, I asked? They did not. No TV at home, though they are fond of watching cartoons and playing games on their father’s smart phone.

I told them briefly about the great war between the Pandavas and the Kauravas. They were incredulous when I told them of the 100 sons of Dhritarastra. No one asked for details, but I guess they had much difficulty in believing that a single set of parents could have one hundred kids.

Today, I will tell you a story from Mahabharat. It is about Guru Dakshina.

‘What is guru dakshina?’ asked Sheetal.

‘You pay fees to your school. Swayam and Shilpi go for private coaching in the evening, and they pay a monthly fee to the tutor. That is Guru Dakshina.’

Guru Drona taught the royal kids – both Kauravas and Pandavas – the art of war including archery, wrestling, and fighting with a mace. Arjun, his best student in archery, never missed a target, and no one else could defeat him when he had on his hands Gandeeva, his famous bow, and the powerful arrows.

One day, Guru Drona spotted a young boy peeping from behind a thick grove at the far end of the open field where he held his classes. He ordered the boy to come near him.

Why are you snooping when I am teaching the secret art of war to my royal students?

Guru Ji, I live in a small hut far inside the forest, but come every day to watch you teach your students. I, too, wish to learn from you. Please take me in as your student.

Are you stupid? How dare you join the school meant only for royal kids? Go off, and never again come anywhere near my school.

Ekalavya was very disappointed, but nodded, and went away into the forest, never to be seen again.

A few years later, Guru Drona completed his lessons for his students, and took them into the forest for a test. Each student was assigned a specific task and target, and most of his students demonstrated that they had learnt well from the Guru. Arjun could not only shoot any target, however small, but also a target without looking at it, merely by listening to a bird’s call, for example.

Deep in the forest, Drona and his students heard a dog barking furiously. All on a sudden, the barking stopped and a dog came running out of a thick grove with seven arrows pinned into its open mouth.

Who could shoot arrows with such precision, they wondered? Soon, they spotted Ekalavya, now a full-grown sturdy youth, with his rustic bow and arrow. Ekalavya offered prostrate salutations to Drona.

Who taught you archery, asked an astonished Drona?

Who else but you, Sir? You are the best teacher in the world in the art of war.

But I never enrolled you in my school!

I made your idol in clay, worshipped it daily with flowers and fruits, and then practised archery. You are my Guru.

Drona realised that Ekalavya, though never trained by him, was a better archer than Arjun. That would be a humiliation not only for Arjun, but for the Guru himself!

He asked Ekalavya, ‘How about my Guru Dakshina?’

Sir, every day I offer you fruits and roots. May I fetch the freshest collection of the day for you?

No, I don’t need that.

Please tell me what would please you, Sir. But you know I have no gold or silver coin or any other expensive gift.

‘Give me your right thumb. That would be your Guru Dakshina to me.’

Without any hesitation Ekalavya took his knife, chopped off his right thumb, and not even wincing from the pain and regardless of blood streaming from his wound, he placed the severed thumb on the Guru’s feet, and offered his salutations.

My students were appalled. Their faces fell. Why would a guru ever be so cruel, they could not comprehend?

I explained why Drona had asked for the right thumb. Ekalavya would never again be able to shoot an arrow without his right thumb.

Did you like the story, I asked?

They kept quiet. Evidently, they were still trying to make sense of this unusual story of a mean, cruel teacher; the gory picture of a severed thumb dripping with blood; and the unhappy ending. So, I asked, ‘Was it right for Dronacharya to demand a Guru Dakshina from Ekalavya?

‘No,’ all the kids shook their little heads vigorously to condemn the Guru’s pettiness.

I had taught them a few words, and no moral lessons. But these small kids were already aware of an unequal, unjust world, and had formed their view of right and wrong.

Sunday School, 20/11/22: Front Row-L to R- Shilpi & Sheetal,

Back Row-L to R- Swayam & Lakki.

***

Note: 

• Author's profile may be seen at http://amazon.com/author/pkdash
• Books by this author are available on Amazon.in, Kindle eBook, Flipkart, and Notion Press, Chennai.

***  

 

A Surprise Visit

 

A Surprise Visit

In a major tribal district of Madhya Pradesh, a young woman, clad in a simple cotton saree, and unaccompanied by any one, walked into a police station in a remote area a little after noon on a hot summer day. The thana was forlorn and unusually quiet. She entered the Thanedar’s room to find the Inspector fast asleep with his feet on the office table, and the rifle stacked against the wall in a corner.

‘Thanedar, Sa’ab,’ she addressed the officer. He was enjoying his siesta, possibly after imbibing mahua, and was roused from sleep most reluctantly after several calls by the woman visitor. Still groggy, he asked, ‘Bai, bol, kya kaam hai? Sidhe kamre mein kyun ghus aayi? Koi katal ho gaya kya?’

‘I’m the DM, and I’m here to inspect this thana. Where is everybody else? Why are you sleeping in the office, and why have you kept your rifle in that corner? Someone could easily steal it,’ she said.

The startled Thanedar sprang to his feet, somehow managed a hasty salute, and rushed out to summon his subordinates for the lady DM’s surprise inspection.

After her inspection, she returned to the district headquarters, and issued suspension orders for the thanedar. A few days later, the Chief Secretary issued a circular to all District Collectors, citing the lady officer’s action as an example of how field officials should be kept on their toes.

Sarita, a very popular Hindi monthly, carried the story of the surprise inspection with the eye-catching caption: Lady DM visits Thana in guise of a tribal woman.

That happened long ago. Recently, I asked the senior lady colleague, ‘Did you, indeed, go in the guise of a tribal woman?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I was new in the district, and I had left behind my jeep and staff a little away from the thana. How could the sleeping thanedar have guessed that the DM would walk alone into the thana? There was no need for disguise.’

***

Note: 

• Author's profile may be seen at http://amazon.com/author/pkdash
• Books by this author are available on Amazon.in, Kindle eBook, Flipkart, and Notion Press, Chennai.

*** 

 

A Python's Plight

 

A Python's Plight

November 28, 2015. A bit chilly in the evening at Bhopal, but not yet very cold. About 8.00 PM, I was walking my dog when a car coming from the opposite direction suddenly screeched to a halt a few metres away. When the driver stepped out, I noted that he was Mr. Pateriya, a senior Forest officer, and a neighbour.

Any issue with the car, I asked?

‘No, a python crossing the road. I was about to run over it. Thank God, I was not speeding, and applied the brake in time,’ he said.

The python was stunned for a minute by the car’s headlight, and the screeching noise, but hastened for cover. In its confusion, it missed the path leading to its home somewhere on the rocky banks of Laharpur Dam – an incomplete and abandoned irrigation project, and climbed up the iron railing separating the river bank from the road. Perched on top of the railing, it tried to reach a branch of the nearby neem tree, but in vain.

A flash mob assembled soon enough, and began clicking photos on their mobile phones using the flash. I must confess that I, too, had clicked a few photos, though without the flash. Several young boys and girls clicked selfies. To click a photo of the open jaws of the hissing python, some even poked it with stick, and threw pebbles at it.

The python was hungry, possibly having missed the rat or mongoose it was trying to capture in the bushes on the road-side. It was away from home, and the cold iron railing felt very different from the branch of a tree, or the swamp from which it caught fish. Pythons are excellent swimmers, and can stay under water for up to 30 minutes at a time.

The shouting and screaming by the excited mob of mostly teens with flash cameras in hand was a scary experience for the reptile since it had not seen these two-legged creatures at close quarters. It became terribly upset, and began hissing. All it wanted to do was to find its way back home.

Mr. Pateriya and I shouted at the young revellers to have mercy on the harassed creature, and stop bothering it. We also alerted the Forest department.

The rescue team arrived after about two hours.  ‘What took so long?’ Mr. Pateriya asked the Range Officer, who had arrived on a large truck, and with a team of eight or more workers carrying sturdy lathis and thick ropes.

Where is the bison, asked the Range Officer? I had to mobilise a proper team to capture it.

Our alert message should have been in Hindi, we realised. Ajgar could not have been mis-heard as van bhainsa or bison!

Soon, the team rescued the python, put it in a jute bag, and took it for rehabilitation to Van Vihar National Park, Bhopal.

A few days later, on Dec 2, I visited Van Vihar to check how the rescued reptile was doing. It had been fed well, and was sleeping cosily.

The vet had examined it. The rescued python was a young male about 3 years old, 6 ft long, and weighed 12 kilos. He was in good health.

I asked, ‘Would you keep him in that cage for ever?’

‘No, after a week or so, we’d release him in Ratapani sanctuary, adjacent to Bhopal. Every year, we rescue several pythons from Bhopal, including a few from the CM’s residence. Bhopal, with its hillocks and lakes, is a natural habitat of the Indian rock python, a very shy, nocturnal, and non-poisonous snake.’

(The rescued python at Van Vihar National Park, Bhopal on Dec 2, 2015.)

LP (Laharpur Python, as I fondly named him), translocated to Ratapani, would now be a robust male, about 17 ft long, and weighing 70 kilos or more. I hope he found a mate, and is the proud father of several children, and a grandfather, too.

(The distressed python near Laharpur Dam, Baghmugaliya Extension, Nov 28, 2015)

***

Note: 

• Author's profile may be seen at http://amazon.com/author/pkdash
• Books by this author are available on Amazon.in, Kindle eBook, Flipkart, and Notion Press, Chennai.

*** 

Snake Repellent

 

Snake Repellent

Prasanna Dash

We live in Bhopal in a colony developed by the Housing Board on a rocky hillock with a modest green cover comprising neem, aonla, achar, chirol, peepul, palash and other indigenous trees. Every season, after the rains, we spot several snakes on the road and near the Laharpur stream, and occasionally one or two in our garden.

A few years ago, we had spotted a python in front of our home. Before it could return to the safety of the forest cover on the rocky outcrop on the bank of the little stream, several onlookers gathered quickly, and began clicking selfies using flash light, and even poked the hapless reptile. The python was distressed, disoriented, and began hissing. All it wished was to get back home. We alerted the Forest department which rescued it and provided shelter in Van Vihar National Park, Bhopal.

I told my wife, ‘We must remember and respect that this hillock and shrub forest was the natural habitat of several animals including birds, snakes, pythons, and mongoose prior to development of this colony. They have not yet abdicated their habitat for us!’

Yet, she panics upon sighting even a tiny water snake. How do you know that it is non-poisonous, she asks? What if it is not? You’re no expert on snakes.

She is right. I’m no expert. So, I give in to her demand to immediately order a packet of snake repellent, a poisonous chemical, which costs me nearly 2000 rupees. She spreads it liberally near our gate, in the garden, and other points of potential entry for reptiles.

But a single shower would wash away the chemicals, I observe sardonically, which isn’t at all liked by her.

This season, too, two or three were spotted in our porch. They were babies, not older than a month or two, I guess, and foraging for food. Rajesh, our household help was guiding a snake out of our premises, scaring it with a tap of a long stick. There was much commotion as his excited kids also joined in to see the snake’s exit. Our neighbours, too, came out to watch the scene.

After the snake slithered away from our premises, crossed the road, and vanished into the greenery, our neighbour counselled me to write a mantra near the gate.

Upon our Guru Ji’s advice, we have written the mantra, he said.  He pointed to a spot on their outer fencing wall, at floor level, where they had painted ॐ अगस्त्याय नमः।.

Incredulous, I asked, ‘After you wrote the mantra, no snake has entered your premises?’

None, he said.

I’m still not convinced. I’m sceptical if snakes can read a Sanskrit mantra written in Devnagari.

Looks like I’d continue to spend money on snake repellent.

***

Note: 

• Author's profile may be seen at http://amazon.com/author/pkdash
• Books by this author are available on Amazon.in, Kindle eBook, Flipkart, and Notion Press, Chennai.

*** 

Annual Confidential Record

An Interesting ACR

Prasanna Dash

‘I will not tell the names of the officers involved, but they are many, many years senior to me,’ said a senior colleague. The point is not about those officers, per se, but about our curious system of ACR, he continued.

Now it is named APAR (Annual Performance Appraisal Record). Previously, it was Anuual Confidential Record (ACR); and it was indeed 'CONFIDENTIAL' except when the entire ACR or part of it was 'Adverse' in which case it had to be communicated to the concerned officer, and s/he had the right to submit representation against the adverse entry.

The Recording Officer had written: He is a thoroughly useless and undependable officer. His integrity is suspect, and his performance is very poor. Grade – D.’

The ACR was communicated to the concerned officer, and he submitted his representation, alleging bias and personal prejudice against the RO. RO had not enclosed a separate sheet, as required, to elaborate his doubts about the officer’s integrity. Hence, the adverse entry regarding integrity had to be deleted.

The officer submitted enough data to establish that his performance was not ‘Very Poor.’ Hence, that portion, including ‘Grade – D’ was deleted.

The officer was still not done. He submitted yet another representation arguing that there was no proof that he was ‘thoroughly useless and undependable.’ So, that adverse entry, too, had to be deleted.

All that remained of the original ACR entry was: ‘He is a ………… officer………’.

‘Though no longer adverse, the ACR was now grammatically incorrect,’ said the narrator with a chuckle.

***

Note: 

• Author's profile may be seen at http://amazon.com/author/pkdash
• Books by this author are available on Amazon.in, Kindle eBook, Flipkart, and Notion Press, Chennai.

*** 

Poetry in common speech

 

Poetry in common speech

 Prasanna Dash

One winter evening in 1994, we reached a village, not far from Maihar, a famous place of pilgrimage for the devotees of Sharada Mata, for TLC (Total Literacy Campaign). The adult literacy classes had commenced, but response was lukewarm, and attendance, particularly of women, was thin. Our mission was to persuade elderly women to join in so that others are also inspired to begin their study.

We went to the poorest mohalla of the village. The women were busy cooking the evening meals for the family. However, with the younger women handling the kitchen, the elderly women were relatively free, and available to chat with us.

We sat down on a chabutara around a peepul tree, and about thirty persons gathered soon. I asked an elderly woman, in her early fifties, ‘Mataji, aapke gaon mein shaam ko bujurgon ke liye kakshayen lag rahi hain, kya aap ko pata hai?

‘Haan.’

‘Kya aap padhne jaati hain.’

‘Nahin. Ab ka padhi, Beta, ab to lakdi robat hai!’

She had spoken in Bagheli, the local dialect. I wondered why her daughter would weep when she went to the literacy class when it struck me that she wasn’t speaking about ladki, but about lakdi. I had very modest acquaintance with Bagheli, yet I got the meaning.

She had said, ‘No point in beginning study at this late age. The funeral pyre is already yearning for me. (Literally, the wood on the funeral pyre is weeping for me.)

That was a kahabat in common use, but an amazingly poetic expression about death.

***

Note: 

• Author's profile may be seen at http://amazon.com/author/pkdash
• Books by this author are available on Amazon.in, Kindle eBook, Flipkart, and Notion Press, Chennai.

*** 

 

Mr. Dhor on Tour!

As I was leaving for office, Manglu, the Head-caretaker of the sprawling Raj-era bungalow informed that a hen had died, and the remaining five in the coop were also drowsy. Not a good sign, he said.

I asked him to go to the Veterinary hospital, not very far from the residence, and request the doctor to come over when free and do the needful.

During lunch, I asked my wife, ‘Did the vet come?’

‘No, Mr. Dhor is on tour. It is not known when he’d be back.’

Dear wife was puzzled when I broke into laughter. 'Did I say something funny?' she asked.

Manglu had gone to the hospital, and upon return had told Ma’am, ‘Dhor Daktar Jagdalpur gaye hain.’ My wife had no idea that vets are called dhor daktar in the Hindi belt!

All the hens perished before the vet’s return from tour, and the coop remained empty for the rest of my tenure at Kanker, Bastar.

***

 Note: 

• Author's profile may be seen at http://amazon.com/author/pkdash
• Books by this author are available on Amazon.in, Kindle eBook, Flipkart, and Notion Press, Chennai.

***

 

Bhindi, Baingan, and other vegetables

After lunch, I asked Bodhram, our cook, ‘Why are you cooking the same dishes for lunch and dinner every day – dal, and a curry of either alu, baingan or bhindi with tomatoes?’

‘Bai saheb yehi sabziyan mangaati hain, Sir,’ he said.

We had just been married, Sanjukta had joined me at Kanker in 1984, and she knew no Hindi.

‘Are you very fond of these vegetables only?’ I asked her.

‘No, but I don’t know the Hindi names of other vegetables. These guys don’t understand what potala (parbal), saru (arvi), bandha kobi (cabbage), makhan (pumpkin), etc are. I thought these vegetables might not be available here.’

I asked the cook to bring from the market a sample of all vegetables and greens that were on sale, and Bodhram dutifully brought a basket of fresh-from-the farm veggies. Sanjukta was thrilled to find all veggies she was familiar with, and a few which were novel for her. She took a notebook and noted down the name of each. Thereafter, our lunch and dinner had varied and delectable fare.

But language isn’t learnt in a day. One day, while I was in the office, and Sanjukta had a sudden craving for a snack, she asked the peon to go to the bazaar and buy a few singhadas.

‘Abhi nahin milega, Bai Saheb, do teen mahine baad milega,’ said Manglu.

In the evening, she complained to me: This is a strange place. Singhada is available only in summer?’

I sent my driver to the market, and he promptly returned with a packet of piping hot samosas. ‘Whenever you wish to savour singhada, just ask for samosa,’ I told my dear wife.

That was a new addition to her meagre Hindi vocabulary, and she happily learned many more as the years went by.

***

Note: 

• I can hardly poke fun at my spouse, for in 1981, when I joined the service, my Hindi competence was very modest, and I didn't know how to write 'ksha'. Even after a life-time in the Hindi-belt, I still goof up on gender at times!
• Author's profile may be seen at http://amazon.com/author/pkdash
• Books by this author are available on Amazon.in, Kindle eBook, Flipkart, and Notion Press, Chennai.

***